


I could be broken with you

by blue_wonderer, wonderingtheblue (blue_wonderer)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Events, Alternate Universe - College/University, And is not the Flash yet, Barry is a college student in Starling finishing his degree, Fake boyfriend for Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Huddling For Warmth, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Olivarry Secret Santa 2018, Oliver is the Arrow, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/wonderingtheblue
Summary: Barry, a student at Starling University, gets dumped by his boyfriend a week before Christmas. Not prepared to face Joe and Iris singleagain, Barry decides to hire someone to play his boyfriend for Christmas.He ends up hiring the first attractive man he runs into. Who turns out to be Oliver Queen.After the inevitable fallout on Christmas Eve, Oliver finds Barry to try and put the pieces back together.





	I could be broken with you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kye_Kreole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kye_Kreole/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, Caye! <3

Oliver waits until Joe goes upstairs to bed before creeping back into the West household. He thinks that maybe stealing into the home of a very armed and _very_ pissed-off cop-dad that kicked him out of the house not even a full hours ago should probably give Oliver pause in the name of self-preservation, but he can’t get that hollow and broken look on Barry’s face out of his mind and that’s enough to spur his steps forward. 

Besides, Oliver has done things that were way more stupid than braving the ire of a riled and overprotective cop-dad. _That_ Oliver actually faces down on the daily in the form of the perpetually-incensed Detective Lance. He makes a pit stop in the living room to grab two thick blankets off of the couch before he walks out the back door. He thinks better of it and briefly steps over the threshold again, reaching up to grab one last thing before plunging into the piercing cold night air, taking care to quietly close the door behind him. 

Snow crunches beneath his feet as he plods slowly through the yard. Fresh snow is falling gently, whirling in slow motion and collecting about the shoulders and collar of his winter coat. The city lights reflect on the clouds above him, washing Central City in a drowsy, bruised glow. 

A week ago, Oliver was in Starling and didn’t have any plans for his first Christmas back with his family except to avoid it. A week ago his only interest was in managing his dual identities and the impossible web of lies he’s woven since returning from Lian Yu. 

A week ago, he hadn’t met Barry Allen. 

Six days ago he bumped into a cute Starling University student outside of a gas station with the strangest business proposal Oliver has ever heard. Oliver has played at boyfriend before, but he’s never been _hired_ to, and not by someone who didn’t even realize who he was. 

Six days ago, Oliver’s life changed. And now he’s miles away from home on Christmas Eve in Central City with Barry, Iris, and Joe firmly wedged into his heart. He has one more person who’s figured out his identity as the Arrow. He’s decorated a Christmas tree and baked cookies and gone sledding for the first time in his life. He even somewhat-willingly went to an ugly Christmas sweater party. 

And he’s fallen a little bit in love with that cute college student who roped him into pretending to be his boyfriend for the holidays. 

He comes to a stop next to Iris who is standing coatless with her hands on her hips and glaring up at an old oak tree. Snowflakes stick to her rich dark curls which bounce about her shoulders as she moves. 

“Bartholomew Henry Allen,” she hisses up at the tree, hands curled into fists at her sides. “You put that ladder back down, now.” Oliver follows her gaze upwards where an old tree house is nestled in the sprawling branches of the oak. There’s a light on in the house, apparent from the weak gleam shining through the filmy little window. 

“Barry, please,” Iris says, all anger sapping away and voice wavering. She takes a deep breath and turns to Oliver, her expression made both vague and exaggerated in the tree’s shadows. 

“What are _you_ still doing here?” 

“About to climb a tree to get to Barry,” Oliver answers honestly. 

“He won’t let the ladder down,” she says, hands flailing to indicate the tree. Oliver imagines she’d be taking an axe to the oak if she knew where one was. “And if he does then I’m going up there, not you. I think you’ve done enough.” 

“That’s fair,” Oliver says, eyes returning to the tree, squinting as he tries to map out his path. 

Iris waits a few seconds before sighing explosively, the fog of her breath hovering before her before disappearing into night and wind. “It’s not, really. Look, Oliver, you lied to us—”

“It’s what I do best,” he mutters and wishes it weren’t the truth. 

“—but I also know that this was Barry’s idea. You’re… well. I’m not sure what you are, I’m not sure what was a lie and what wasn’t. But I’m not like Dad—I don’t think you went along with Barry to hurt him. At least… you better not have.” 

“I think I’d rather die first,” Oliver confesses with a hushed revelation. 

“You know what?” Iris whispers. “I think I might actually believe you. But it doesn’t matter. Barry won’t talk. He won’t let the ladder down. Trust me, he can hold out up there for _days_.”

“I don’t think he could hold out long against you.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Well,” he says with a shrug, “you’re his Iris, right?” 

There’s a long pause and Oliver has the distinct feeling that he passed. He’s not sure _what_ he passed, exactly—if it was forgiveness or protectiveness or friendship. But he’s surprised at how glad he is to have Iris with him and Barry, after everything earlier this evening. Confused and angry and hurt, but _there_ and supportive in her own way. 

“You’re damn right,” Iris sighs. 

“But I think I can speed this process along.” 

“You think?”

“Well, I’m not sure. Barry’s probably the most unpredictable man I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah,” Iris sighs, achingly fond in a way that makes Oliver ping with both resonance and deep longing. “So what are you going to do about it?” 

“I’m going to climb a tree to get to Barry,” Oliver repeats from earlier. “It might take a while, but I promise to bring him back.”

“OK,” Iris says, hunching her shoulders forward against a sharp wind that cuts through the yard. “I think I’ll wait here a little longer before going inside, though.” 

Oliver isn’t surprised and does some maneuvering to free himself of his coat. He has to juggle the blankets and he ends up twisting around in a complete circle to get it off. Iris offers no assistance, choosing instead to stand to the side and giggle at him between unhelpful pointers like _“maybe if you spin in the other direction”_. 

“Here,” he says, handing her his coat. “Wear this at least.” 

She immediately throws it on, the thick material engulfing her slim build. She quickly zips it up and stuffs her hands in the pockets, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. 

“Wow,” Oliver deadpans. “You didn’t even hesitate.” 

“You have blankets,” she defends. “Besides, aren’t you in the middle of making a grand romantic gesture?” 

Oliver shakes his head and approaches the tree, testing his grip on the first steady branch he can reach. The cold bites into his hands and disturbed snow falls from the branches above him and down the back of his shirt. He grits his teeth. He _hates_ the cold. Still, he hauls himself up, a task made more complicated by the blankets on his shoulders. 

“Wow,” Iris comments from below. “Your arm muscles are really big. Like, ridiculously big. Do you think you can do this again in the morning? When I can see it better?” 

Oliver can’t help the snort that escapes him as he continues his ascent. It only takes him a few minutes to carve a path to the treehouse, taking his time to step carefully on the slick footholds he can barely make out. Eventually, he levers himself over the ledge that acts as a tiny, wooden porch and lets himself in the stupidly minuscule Hobbit door. 

And promptly smacks his head on the doorframe. He sighs, hunches over, and slouches the rest of the way into the treehouse, tripping over the jumbled ladder Barry had pulled up after him so no one could follow. It’s just as cold inside as it is outside, its wooden walls only serving to keep the wind and the snow off of them. It’s also ridiculously _small_. Treehouses always seemed so much bigger on TV. This one is hardly big enough for two grown men to be in it at the same time. 

The space is barren, long stripped of its child-size furniture and knick knacks. All that’s left it a small glass lantern in the corner, the one Barry’s already lit. And Barry, of course. He’s laying flat on his back and staring forlornly up at the low roof. It would be amusing except for the red rimmed around Barry’s eyes and the paleness to his cheeks. 

“I forgot you were some ninja monkey vigilante,” Barry sighs softly. 

“Could you say the vigilante thing any louder?” Oliver whispers. “Iris is still down there.” 

Barry tilts his head up, raising an eyebrow at him. “If you think Iris isn’t half way to figuring out your alter ego already then you underestimate her.” 

Oliver sighs at the crushing inevitability of that statement and shuffles toward Barry. He hits his head again on the ceiling and hisses, this time hearing Barry’s aborted little chuckle at his expense. 

Forgoing his awkward Sumo-walk, Oliver falls to his knees and crawls over to Barry. Unceremoniously, he tosses both of the folded blankets on Barry’s chest and stomach. 

“You forgot your coat.” 

“Why bother?” Barry asks. “It’ll make it harder to accomplish my plan.” 

“Which is?” 

“To freeze to death in my sleep.” 

“Barry.” 

“Oliver.” 

This close, Oliver can’t bring himself to take his eyes off of Barry— a recurring issues over the past six days. The first few buttons of Barry’s dark green shirt are undone, like he’d pulled at them as if he couldn’t breathe. His clothes are a wrinkled mess and more hair is sticking up than laying down at this point. There’s a teardrop still clinging to his dumb giraffe eyelashes and his lips are red from chewing at them. The lantern in the corner suffuses the room in a dim golden brilliance with Barry in the center. Oliver thinks that Barry sort of looks like an angel then, an angel with wrecked hair and tear-stained cheeks. 

Oliver sighs and picks the blankets off of Barry’s stomach. He unfolds one and lays it over Barry, who finally deigns to glare at him even when he tugs the blanket around himself and turns on his side, tucking his knees up to his chest. Now Oliver can see fine tremors wracking his body and he huffs, unfolding the second blanket and laying it on top of Barry as well. 

“Don’t you need that one? You forgot your coat, too.” 

“I spent five years on an island in the North China Sea, Barry. I don’t get cold.” 

Barry blinks up at him, ridiculously long eyelashes made longer in the shadows of the lantern, big eyes made brighter. Oliver feels his heart swell to the ceiling and drop through the floor in the span of one breath. 

_You’re beautiful,_ he wants to say. _You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. You’re fire in the cold, you’re sunshine on the snow, laughter in the dark. I don’t know how anyone could leave you, could let you go. I couldn’t. I’d give up just about anything to have you in my life._

But the words sort of build up on his tongue and crash against the back of his teeth, tumble back and forth until his throat is tight with all the things he can’t bring himself to speak into existence. So he says instead, “want to talk about it?” 

“Which part?” Barry mutters into the blanket that’s been pulled up over his nose. He’s turned so he’s facing Oliver but his eyes are staring somewhere past Oliver’s left hip. “The part where I got dumped a week before Christmas? The part where I _hired_ someone to be my fake boyfriend so I didn’t have to face my family? Or maybe how the person I hired turned out to be some playboy vigilante billionaire? Oh, how about the part where I think Joe is going to disown me and murder you. That one’s my favorite.” 

“OK, yeah,” Oliver shrugs. “When you say it like that…” 

“It’s fucked up.” 

“Maybe.” 

“ _I’m_ fucked up.” 

“No.” 

“A desperate, fucked up loser who gets dumped before Christmas because I was a _’mistake’_.”

“Is that what he said? Really?” Oliver asks, voice hardening. Barry looks up at him, eyes swimming and bottom lip trembling. “Right,” Oliver agrees to the unspoken plea. “We won’t talk about that now. No matter how wrong and stupid he was.”

“Thanks,” Barry sighs. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“No, I mean,” Barry says, sitting up. Long, pale fingers shore up the corners of the blankets so they’re over the top of his head and wrapped around his shoulders. “I mean thank you, for everything. For going along with this plan. For putting up with my crazy family. For putting up with me and my crazy.” 

“Barry,” Oliver insists, quietly. “You’re not crazy for not wanting to be alone on the holidays.” 

Barry closes his eyes and a tear leaks out, falling to the corner of his mouth. “What I did was pretty insane. I knew it wouldn’t work but I hoped that… just this once… I don’t know.” He breathes out and curls his fingers into the blankets until his knuckles turn white. “I just wanted Christmas to feel… whole again. You know, fixed. All of the cracks filled in. I don’t… I don’t know how to do that, Oliver. I’m scared I won’t ever know.” 

Oliver shuffles forward on his knees, reaches out and wipes the tear away from Barry’s mouth. Startled green eyes find his and Oliver doesn’t move his hand, just continues to stroke his thumb beneath Barry’s cheekbone. 

“I didn’t want to spend the holidays at the manor,” Oliver confesses. “That’s why I said yes to this cute college student who hired me outside of a gas station to play his fake boyfriend for Christmas.” 

Barry’s lips twitch. “So you do think I’m cute.” 

Oliver smiles back. “I just… I know things, now, about my family. And my… skin sort of, I don’t know, _crawls_ at the thought of the big manor and its parties and its fancy decorations and…” he trails off, thinking of his mother’s caged eyes, the wry twist of Thea’s smile. He misses them so much it hurts, but he misses them just as much when he’s with them. Something broke when he was away, in them as well as in himself, and he can’t put it back together again. Maybe Oliver could, once. But he’s not the same Oliver he once was. He thinks parts of him, the only decent parts of him, probably died on that island. Maybe his dad could, if he were still alive.

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut against the image that inevitably surfaces at the thought of his father—his warm laughter superimposed over sickening ocean waves and his pallid face, the flash of the gun—

“Hey,” Barry murmurs, reaching up to run his fingertips through Oliver’s short hair. “Oliver.” He doesn’t say anything else, no _“it’s OK”_ or _“what’s wrong”_ or _“you’re not there anymore”_ or any other useless platitudes. He just hums quietly and says Oliver’s name, an anchor, a gentle beacon leading Oliver home. Oliver shivers, probably more from the self-inflicted emotional vulnerability than the cold, but Barry gently guides them so they’re laying down facing each other and pulls the blankets over the both of them. Barry’s close, their breaths intermingling in order to share the warmth. 

“What I’m trying to say is I don’t know how to fix what’s broken in our— family, in our Christmas, in our… I don’t know how to make the holidays whole again, either. That’s why I came with you to Central City. It was a distraction, sure, but I also hoped…” 

He trails off, the words tangling in a frustrating, _exhausting_ ball in his throat once again. His hand has moved from Barry’s cheek to behind his head, fingers lost in the soft, unruly strands of his hair. One of Barry’s hands rests over Oliver’s arm. 

“I think I went and broke Christmas even more,” Barry whispers. “And now I have to fix things with Joe and Iris, too.” 

“I don’t know how to fix that, either,” Oliver admits. He gives in, just for one moment, to the inviting line of heat of Barry’s body. He gives in to the too pretty eyes and the still-trembling shoulders and leans forward to kiss Barry’s forehead and lets him be overwhelmed by the smell of his hair and cologne and clothes. He lets himself be overwhelmed by _Barry_. “But I’ll walk it with you, if that’s alright.” 

Barry’s smile is watery when he says, “I think that’s a bit above and beyond the scope of pretend boyfriend, Oliver. I owe you enough as it is.” 

“You know I’m not talking about that.”

Oliver can’t begin to unpack the meaning behind the look Barry gives him, but he finds himself looking forward to trying. 

“I... hoped,” Barry whispers. “It’s the same. For me. I—this started out, you know. An act. A lie. But I think what I feel for you has become the truth.” 

Oliver kisses Barry’s forehead again, if only to hide the shudder of doubt in his own eyes, to hide how this scares the hell out of Oliver even when he can’t bring himself to let go. 

“Maybe your broken Christmas and my broken Christmas together might make a whole one,” Barry mutters into Oliver’s collar, his breath sinking hotly through Oliver’s shirt and against his skin. 

“I look forward to trying,” Oliver says, pressing a smile into Barry’s hair before leaning back. 

Barry squeezes his arm and then does it again, like he’s testing something out. “They’re not _that_ big,” he pouts. 

Oliver surprises them both with a laugh. “I guess you heard that? Oh, I brought you something else.” 

Barry raises an incredulous eyebrow, color back in his cheeks and the weight behind his eyes a little lighter than it was before. “How many things did you steal from Joe on the way here? You’re not doing us any favors.” 

Oliver huffs in triumph as he finally pulls the small bunch of mistletoe he stole from Joe's backdoor from his pocket and brings it between their faces. The leaves are crushed and bent, the bright red ribbon loosened and lopsided. “I thought, you know, since we were interrupted last time…” 

Barry blinks a few times before he grins up at Oliver, and Oliver has a chance to fall in love with Barry’s dimples all over again. He lifts his arm from the blankets, cool air snaking over his shoulder, but he can’t bring himself to feel it with Barry smiling at him like that. Barry glances up to where Oliver is holding the mistletoe at arm’s length above their heads. 

“It’s tradition,” Oliver insists and Barry meets his eyes for a split second before he closes them, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks as he lifts soft lips to Oliver’s. 

The kiss is warm and whole, and there is nothing broken about it. 

**end.**

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit late because I started writing a very different fic. Last night I realized that I was at 4K on that fic and it was going to, easily, turn into at least a 10K or more fic. I needed to start over with something a bit more manageable, and since I've been watching a LOT of Hallmark movies this week, this one came easily. Maybe next Christmas I'll be ready for the "Barry and Oliver hunt Bigfoot during Christmas" fic. ;)
> 
> This is also, obviously, a bit of a snapshot of a longer story. I tried to make sure everyone could follow along anyway. I hope that's OK! 
> 
> Thanks to Halzbarry for guiding me through my "oh shit this Bigfoot fic is going to be impossible" revelation and subsequent panic. Thanks to my friend Tobyaudax who juggled a quick but extremely helpful beta during his furious baking today. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone! <3
> 
> If you love Olivarry, you should check out the [Olivarry Discord server!](https://discord.gg/CYP2qEr) See you there!


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